Never Be Afraid
by Anonymoustache
Summary: It's a normal day for the dynamic deducing duo. John's been at work and Sherlock's on a case. However, when John comes home and tries to cuddle up to the detective on the couch, he finds that something isn't right with Sherlock. The doctor can't quite put his finger on what's wrong, though...Johnlock


_A/N; Now, before you violently kill me for posting a new story while I still have others that are currently unfinished, hear me out._

_Life got complicated. As in, fuck-it-let's-just-kill-everyone complicated. Basically, after the flooding of the house (previously mentioned in one of my other updates long ago) came the chopping-in-half of my grandmother's finger, the near-suicide of my mentally ill father, and, of course, the lovely Week Of Finals, during which I stayed up til eleven every night trying to memorize formulas of Math and fragments of The Odyssey._

_Soooo updating time has been far and few between, and quite honestly I've been exhausted from all this shit._

_Therefore, think of this oneshot as both a gift and a promise; a gift to apologize for my lack of updates, and a promise that I am, in fact, still alive and writing, and that I will update my other stories very, very soon._

_On a slightly brighter note, FOSTER THE PEOPLE FINALLY PUT OUT A NEW SONG! Coming Of Age by Foster The People…it will give you an eargasm._

_Reviews are cake, jam, and serial killings in word form :3_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

John pushed open the door to the flat, hanging his keys on a hook and throwing his jacket over the back of a chair.

"Sherlock, I'm home!" he yelled, heading for the kitchen to get a snack.

No response.

John shrugged, pulling the bread out of the cupboard along with the peanut butter.

_Usually he's all over me before I even walk in the door._

_Huh._

John spread a glob of peanut butter onto a slice of bread and threw it onto a plate, walking towards his chair and picking up the newspaper on the way. He sat down and, flicking a few small fish bones from one of Sherlock's many strange experiments off the side table, put his snack down and opened the paper up, scanning the news for possible cases to interest the detective.

"Sherlock, did you hear me?" John yelled again, munching the snack.

The bedroom door creaked open and the detective appeared, smiling wanly. "Hello, John."

John grinned and set down his bread. "Good to know you're alive."

"Thank you…I think." Sherlock said quietly. He walked across the room and sat down gingerly in his chair, wincing slightly.

John frowned. Sherlock was pale. Too pale, almost.

"You feeling all right, 'Lock?" John asked, closing his paper and setting it on the table next to him.

"Fine, fine…" Sherlock said distractedly. His eyes seemed to be darting around much quicker than usual.

"…Okay…" John said. He wasn't entirely convinced, but he let it slide. Sometimes Sherlock got like this…it was just how he was.

"So how'd the case end up?" he asked, picking up the last bit of bread and pushing it into his mouth.

"Caught the killer," Sherlock grunted. He stood up (rather uneasily, John noticed with slight concern) and walked towards the couch. "He was as boring and simple-minded as the rest of the criminal classes."

John nodded wisely. He stood up as well and went to sit on the couch in front of the detective, patting the place next to him.

Sherlock sat down carefully on the edge of the cushion, smiling at his boyfriend. John scooted over slightly and put his arm around the detective, pulling him close.

"God, I missed you today," John whispered, kissing Sherlock gently on his cheek. "You were all I could think about."

"Well, how about I give you some more to think about?" Sherlock purred, leaning into John's kiss. His voice seemed a little weak, John thought again.

_Maybe it's all in my mind._

_You're being much too worrisome, Watson. Just let it be._

John resolved not to think so much.

"That's exactly what I was hoping for, Sherlock Holmes," John said seductively, leaning in once again.

His lips met Sherlock's in a bruising kiss, hands traveling around to run up the detective's smooth silk-covered back. He pulled Sherlock tight against him, chests pressed together.

"Mmm…" John's tongue traced the outline of Sherlock's cupid's-bow. His hands came around to the front, rubbing against Sherlock's stomach.

The detective gasped, just a bit, which John took to be a good sign. He continued rubbing his hands against the silk shirt gently, moving up towards Sherlock's chest, and began to kiss his way down Sherlock's jaw line.

Sherlock's head tilted back, eyes rolling towards the ceiling. "John…" he moaned. "P-please…"

John licked and nibbled at Sherlock's neck, forming a dark hickey there. He kissed down the long, seamless neck to Sherlock's clavicle, tongue lavishing the hollow there. "God…love you so much, 'Lock…"

"John…" Sherlock said in a strained voice as he suddenly straightened up, covering his stomach ever so slightly with his hands. "Much as I am enjoying your current ministrations, might I take a moment to use the loo?"

John smiled a bit. "Course, love." He pulled himself off the detective, sitting back down on the couch. Sherlock stood, rather unsteadily, and headed towards the bathroom, walking crookedly.

John grinned as he watched the detective leave.

_He must have one hell of an erection if he's walking like that._

John didn't know how wrong he was.

* * *

Sherlock collapsed on the floor, face contorted in pain. He ripped open his silk shirt, wincing slightly as the edges of the fabric caught against his sore skin, and pulled off the long strip of bloodstained gauze that had been wound around his torso.

There, stretching from the top of his left nipple to just below his belly button, was a long, shallow cut, still dripping blood down his pale alabaster skin.

He picked up the already-stained shirt (thank god John wasn't very observant when he was sexually aroused, Sherlock thought) and pressed it to the wound, scrunching his face in pain as he began to wipe away the blood.

The cut had happened earlier that afternoon; during the case, in fact. James Blackwood, the murderer Sherlock had been helping Scotland Yard to track down, was not very bright nor was he very experienced. This had been his first murder and he had been relatively easy to find. However, that also meant he was desperate not to get caught, and a desperate killer was a dangerous killer.

Sherlock had snuck up behind him and managed to get the man in a headlock while Lestrade brought his force in from the front. However, things hadn't quite gone according to plan, and the man had pulled a knife on the detective before Lestrade and his crew had showed up. Sherlock had been able to wrestle the sharp blade away from Blackwood, but not before he had received a long slice across his chest for his troubles.

When Lestrade had run around the corner, followed by Sally and several other officers, Blackwood was out cold on the ground, Sherlock standing beside him with his coat wrapped tightly around himself.

The detective had gone home immediately afterward, waving away thanks from Lestrade and offers of a coffee later, arm pressed tightly against his chest. He had no intention of telling the inspector, or anyone else, for that matter. He had cleaned the wound, bandaging it to the best of his ability, and put on a fresh shirt, shoving the other one underneath his bed.

Sherlock was suddenly broken off from his reverie of the afternoon's events by a gentle knock on the door.

"Sherlock? You've been in there for a bit…you okay?"

"F-fine," Sherlock said, teeth chattering.

It was cold, all of a sudden. Why was it so cold?

Sherlock heard John's feet shifting outside the door.

The doctor could sense that something was wrong.

"Are you sure? You don't sound okay."

Sherlock paused, head lolling slightly onto his shoulders. Was he okay? He couldn't remember.

"Sherlock, the door's unlocked so I'm coming in, okay?"

"No…M'fine, John, really I am…"

The door opened with a click and John stepped into the bathroom. A confused look crossed his face.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock looked up, holding the shirt tight against his chest so that John wouldn't see what was beneath it. "Yeeeees?"

"Why are you sitting on the bathroom floor with your shirt like that?"

"No reason…" Sherlock muttered, trailing off at the end.

"Hang on…is that _blood_?" John asked incredulously. He leaned down and, before Sherlock could do anything, grabbed the shirt away from the detective's chest.

"Oh, Jesus," John said as his eyes rested on the long, thin cut, blood still trickling down Sherlock's ribs. "Oh, _Christ_…Sherlock, why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"Didn't want you to worry…" Sherlock mumbled, looking at the floor.

John pursed his lips, eyes concerned. After a moment, he offered the detective a hand. "C'mon. Let's get you patched up, you stupid idiot…and we'll do it _right_ this time."

* * *

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked over at John. The doctor had stitched up the cut quickly and efficiently, slathering it with antibiotics and sticking a plaster over it to help it heal free of infection. They were lying in bed now, lights off.

"Yes, John?"

John turned onto his side so that he was facing the detective. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock sighed. "I didn't want you to worry."

"Why not?"

Sherlock shrugged and winced slightly as the plaster shifted. "I don't know. It's just…you always patch me up, John, and I feel like I put you through too much sometimes. I…I guess I didn't want to trouble you."

"Sherlock…" John said in a soft, troubled voice. He took the detective's hand in his own. "I never want you to feel like you can't come to me when you have a problem. Physical, emotional, mental…never be afraid to admit your weaknesses, okay?" He squeezed Sherlock's hand gently with his.

"Never be afraid."

Sherlock nodded, sniffling a bit. "I love you, John. You...you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

John leaned in and placed a light kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "I love you too, sweetheart. And I'll always be here to 'patch you up', no matter what the problem is. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, the tension falling out of his shoulders. "Okay."

They lay there on the soft bed in comfortable silence, the darkness surrounding them like an inky blanket.

"John?"

"What is it, Sherlock?"

A pause.

"I love you."

Another pause.

"I love you too."

That was all they ever needed to say.


End file.
